


another sunny day

by museicalitea



Series: When The Game's Been Fought [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Crying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4533546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museicalitea/pseuds/museicalitea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fukurodani loses at Nationals. No one on the team handles it very well.</p><p>Konoha is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	another sunny day

The squeaks as their shoes skid on the floor and the cheers and chatter of the spectators above them echo up, and up, and up into the roof. The gymnasium is awash with sound, and it rains down on him, sets his stomach atremble with adrenaline. Under the searing white lights, his muscles are warm and burn with the strain of two hours of intense play, and yet as the sweat on his skin dries he shivers. His right shoulder aches and his hands are nearly shaking.

But it’s his serve. Only seven points to go, and they’ll be in the finals. Bokuto’s dejection that cost them the third set has long gone, and his captain is grinning from ear to ear, bouncing on his toes and raring to go. Everyone on the team is riding on a high right now. Their plays are sharper than usual, their movements smoother, faster. The other team is matching them stride for stride, but there’s something in the air. Something in his gut telling him that they can win this.

And Konoha’s gut instincts are rarely wrong.

The whistle blows. Konoha breathes in, then out. And then he tosses the ball up high. It’s a good toss, and as he runs and jumps to hit it, it goes exactly where he wants it. It lands just off-centre in the middle of the court, right in front of their number 8 wing spiker, whose reactions are just a beat too slow at times.

“Nice, Konoha!”

“Aw yeah!”

“Get another one!”

“Ser-vice ace! Ser-vice ace!” And _that’s_ Nekoma. He turns to the stands and flashes a peace sign up to the block of red, then wheels back around to the court and grins widely at his teammates.

Nine points to eight. They’re even closer now.

The libero gets under the second serve, and returns it to the setter. Konoha bends and readies his arms to receive the spike, and sees Komi do the same to his left. Sarukui and Onaga are already at the net, and on Saru’s count they jump, arms raised.

But something seems off about it.

The ball slams through the block, and Komi dives forwards with arms outstretched. But it bounces off the side of his arm and hits the court as Konoha runs forward in a last-ditch bid to save it. The whistle blows, and Konoha walks over to Komi and offers his hand.

“Next one, Komiyan, you nearly had it there!”

Komi’s never been one to dwell on his errors—always looks forward, always has their backs—and true to form, he flashes Konoha a smile and grabs his hand, warm and tight, before hoisting himself to his feet.

“Onaga!”

Saru’s voice is high, panicked—

And as Konoha turns, his stomach clenches, the adrenaline suddenly roiling and stabbing—because Onaga has half-collapsed forwards, and is standing on visibly shaking legs only thanks to Saru and Akaashi supporting him.

“Coach!” Saru says, and while his voice isn’t panicked anymore—and Saru’s always been the quickest to calm down from highs and lows, a stable presence with a clear mind—there is no mistaking the urgency in his tone.

Saru helps Onaga get off the court and sitting on the staff bench. Konoha watches them with sweaty fists clenched, Komi wide-eyed at his elbow, and for a split second Onaga looks back at them. He catches Konoha’s eye. He looks exhausted (and after four and a half long, long sets, he would be), pale and sick—

And so very shocked and upset that a weight sinks like a stone into Konoha’s stomach, and he has to turn away before that heavy despair overwhelms him.

A minute later, their second year reserve blocker Minami comes onto the court, and the other team takes their serve.

 

 

The score is 13–14 to their opponents. Akaashi serves, and the rally begins.

 

 

For the fifth time this rally, the ball slices down over the net, but Saru receives it easily and it soars up to arc towards Akaashi. Bokuto begins his run-up.

“Left!” he calls. There’s almost no need. They’re taking no chances, not now. Akaashi sets the ball up high, and Bokuto is there to meet it. He slams his hand down and it flies straight through the blockers.

But the libero is there. The ball rebounds off his arms and up, but not high or far enough for the setter. Number four digs it up, and now the ball is high. It soars up and forwards, and their number 2 runs and jumps. No Bokuto, but he’s an excellent spiker. An ace. He’s strong. Konoha jumps alongside Washio, hands splayed over the net.

The ball stings as it slams past Konoha’s arm, and then there is a squeak as he lands. A thud.

Time stops. For a brief second, everything stops. Konoha’s heart thuds in his chest, and blood roars through his ears or maybe that is his breaths, loud and dry and not quite there and his cheeks, his cheeks are tingling why are they tingling and his throat is tight and the cheering starts up. The noise comes back all in a rush.

“No,” says Washio, and it comes out as a soft, choked breath. Konoha blinks and snaps out of his daze. He realises he’s staring at the floor and lifts his eyes to see the other team cheering, clapping their number 2 on the back, beaming and laughing and—

 Oh.

_Oh._

 

 

For the first time this year, Konoha wishes he’d chosen the #1 jersey. He’d originally thought Bokuto’s idea of “Hey, can we pick our own numbers this year? _Please,_ sensei?” was—well. Strange. Unnecessary. Kind of maybe not that bad (which of course no one else heard). And so, when no one else had taken that number and the onus had been on _him_ to wear it, he’d defied all expectations and chosen the same jersey number he’d held the previous year. The one he’d first worn as a regular on the team.

But had he chosen 1… He could have stood next to Washio. He could have stood in line alongside his friends. He could have had someone else there to keep him strong.

But his jersey number is seven, and he only has a second year on one side and a first year on the other. On his right, there is a pervading sense of exhaustion coming from his teammates. To his left, he can hear Komi’s gasps as he tries to stem his tears. Towering above Komi, Onaga still looks shaky, but more than that he looks vastly distraught.

Konoha’s fists are clenched the whole time they are lined up, and he only relaxes them when the teams move forwards to shake hands. He’s faced with the other team’s number 6—a skinny middle blocker—and a smile lights up his opponent’s face.

“Good game,” Number 6 says as they clasp hands. Konoha nods and squeezes their hands together a little more tightly. He doesn’t trust his voice right now—there’s a lump in his throat that’s threatening to crack—but he cannot help but think, _Yes. Yes it was._

_It was the best game we’ve ever played. So how did we lose?_

 

 

It’s only when they get to the locker room that Konoha realises Onaga has disappeared. His red face and trembling lower lip hadn’t escaped Konoha’s notice in the gymnasium—but since getting into the corridors Konoha really hasn’t been able to focus on anything. Words and people and lights and the thud of a volleyball hitting the court for the final time have blurred and buzzed in his brain, and he only focuses again when Washio drops his kitbag on the bench right in front of him. He blinks and looks up, focus razor-sharp, to see Washio tugging on his jacket as he pulls the door open and disappears into the corridor.

A hand settles on his shoulder, long fingers firm and steady. “He’s going to go and find Onaga-kun, Aki,” Saru says quietly. “Can you stay for a few minutes?”

And just like that, his focus is gone, and the buzz of _we lost we lost that’s it we lost_ leaves him feeling empty again. Konoha nods automatically and follows Saru further down the locker room, where the first and second years sit with hunched shoulders and broken faces. The room is cold, dark grey paint pressing in on them and the fluorescent lights harsh and too like those in the gymnasium.

Komi is curled up on the floor with his back against the lockers, and his face is streaked with tears. Konoha sinks down to sit cross-legged next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Komi slumps into the touch, and Konoha leans back against the cool metal of the lockers as Saru claps his hands together a few feet from them. All their kouhais’ eyes turn on him.

Konoha zones out as Saru talks and lets the empty words wash over him. It’s nothing important—just a message from their coach about where they’re meeting up for dinner tonight, and that they're going to stay to watch the afternoon's second semi-final match. Beside him, Komi hiccups and rubs a hand over his eyes. A bench creaks, and Konoha turns his head in surprise when he hears his captain’s voice. For someone so exuberant and noticeable, Bokuto is very good at hiding himself in his lowest, quietest moods, and Konoha hadn’t noticed him in the room until he stood up.

“Um…” Bokuto clears his throat and manages a smile. His face is so worn, so defeated and _tired_ that it has little effect on Konoha. “I just wanna say… that was a really good game. We—we couldn’t have played like that without you guys at our backs. And—” He gulps, and what little composure he has wavers. “Thank you.” His voice cracks. “All of you.”

And then he claps a hand over his mouth and runs out of the locker room. The door bangs against the wall, and one by one the kouhais’ tears start to trail down their cheeks. Sarukui sinks onto the bench next to Akaashi, whose face has been buried in his hands this whole time. Konoha knows that Saru will keep it together as long as the team needs someone to be strong for them. Konoha would try to do that too, but his insides are so numb that he doesn’t even think he can talk, let alone offer comfort.

Konoha tips his head back against the lockers and tightens his arm around Komi’s shoulders, and Komi sniffs again.

 

 

This is what Konoha sees five minutes later, when the kouhai have disappeared in clumps and Komi has been claimed by his older sister and he has left Saru and an uncharacteristically silent Akaashi in the locker room:

Kuroo Tetsurou is standing in the hallway, cutting a striking figure in red, and his arms are wrapped tightly around Bokuto. Bokuto’s sobbing into his shoulder, horrible, loud sobs interspersed with unidentifiable words, and this is worse—this is so much worse than his dejected mode. Konoha can’t see much of Kuroo’s face, but the way he grips Bokuto’s jacket—fingers clenching into the fabric, arms squeezing a little too much—tells Konoha everything he really needs to know.

His stomach sinks and squirms, and he slips away.

 

 

Konoha’s trainers squeak on the linoleum floor as he pushes the bathroom door open. It creaks a little on its hinges, but the noise is drowned out under running water and the whir of a hand-dryer. Konoha keeps his head down and stalks to the furthest stall. He bites back a curse as the lock sticks, but with a hard yank it slots into place. And then he flips down the lid of the toilet, sits down, and sighs. All the tension leaves his shoulders for the first time since the end of the match.

There’s a strange noise echoing in the bathroom, and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s someone trying to stifle their crying. Minutes pass, and a dozen footsteps spill in and out. Locks click into place, and then out again as people leave their stalls. The taps gush on and off, on and off in harsh little blasts. Konoha slumps over and rests his elbows on his knees. The adrenaline buzz in his veins is fading fast, and his muscles feel like lead.

After a while, he realises that the only thing he can hear is that person crying in another stall. Eh. He can live with that.

The door creaks, and a heavy set of footsteps walks into the bathroom. The person in the far stall is still crying, and the person with the heavy footsteps raps hard on one of the doors.

“Onaga? Onaga-kun, is that you?”

Konoha freezes.

With a scritch and a click, the crying person unlocks their stall. A pause. More footsteps, and the lock clicks shut once more.

Washio speaks again. “You did nothing wrong.”

Onaga’s voice—so quiet at the best of times—is almost too choked with tears to make out. “I—I—”

“Onaga,” Washio says, and his voice is as steadfast as his block. “One person does not make the team win or lose the game. I’d have thought—” And Konoha can _hear_ the wry smile in his voice—“that you’d know a thing or two about that after being on _this_ team.”

Onaga sniffs. “But it messed up your rhythm. A-a-and I should—should’ve—”

“It was not your fault, Onaga. You did well.” Konoha tilts sideways and leans his head against the wall. The tiles are cool. It feels nice on his skin. “You helped us get _here._ You helped us get as far as we did. And…” Washio pauses. Maybe it’s his bloody intuition again, but something clenches in Konoha’s stomach at the silence.

“You have next year. And the year after that. You have time to become stronger, and to make this team stronger. You will lead Fukurodani to win Nationals, and when you—”

Konoha stands up abruptly. He unlocks his cubicle with fumbling fingers and trips out of the stall, pulls the bathroom door open so hard it slams against the wall. He walks with shaky feet and something clenching and tightening in his throat, brushing past people as he searches and searches—there. An exit.

He starts to run. Someone shouts. People call after him. But his face is burning and he can’t swallow and he can hardly breathe and his feet are so fast but not fast enough—and he gets to the doors and shoves them open and runs outside, the concrete harder under his feet—

—and the clouds are grey, low and heavy, and the wind is loud and strong, howling past the gymnasium, howling in wails past his ears, and it whips against his cheeks and through his hair and no one’s out here _no one’s out here_ and he screams he screams and he _screams._

It tears out of his throat and the wind swallows it up, and he screams again.

They lost. They _lost._ And Konoha doesn’t have a next year. He doesn’t have one more chance to try again. They _lost_ , and he—they—

They have no more games to play. This is it. And that thought is so sudden, so shocking, that Konoha gasps and his screams cut off. The wind whistles past and whips away the last echoes of them.

And then from behind him, there are footsteps. A voice, out of breath but strong.

“Aki!”

He turns around to see Kaori running towards him. Her unzipped jacket flaps with her footsteps and her cheeks are flushed. She slows down as she gets close to him (it takes her so long—how far did he come out?), and when she is only a step away she stops, shoulders square and ponytail tossing about in the wind.

Kaori doesn’t look like she’s been crying. Her face is stiff, but her eyes are clear. She doesn’t tend to cry. She’ll take her frustration out on a punching bag in the boxing club’s room at school, and she will hit it over and over again until her skin splits and her knuckles bleed. It’ll mean a couple of nights where she comes around to his place and he ices her fingers while they curl up on the couch and watch shitty drama series on TV.

But as she reaches up to grip his shoulders with fingers that are too cold and too tight, something in Konoha finally breaks. Kaori takes a step closer, and Konoha wraps his arms around her. And when the tears finally, finally come, they soak into her hair, and his sobs send tremors through the both of them. She rubs his back and presses her face into his shoulder. Kaori is warm and soft, and her body pressed so close to his only makes his tears come faster and harder.

Konoha cries and cries and cries. The tears fall for minutes, and drain everything from his exhausted body, but there is nothing else he can do. He cries because they lost.

And he cries because he will never get to play with this team—this golden, shining, _soaring_ team—ever, ever again.

 

 

In fifteen minutes’ time, Bokuto will have cried himself out, and will be composed enough to take command of the team again. Akaashi will have let himself cry silently while Sarukui rubs his back, and when Bokuto comes back into the locker room, it will be to Akaashi’s smile. Saru will be able to hide himself away at last and let himself be upset. Komi will have fallen asleep from exhaustion on his sister’s shoulder in the hallway. And Washio and Onaga will leave the bathroom, and while the guilt biting away at Onaga will not have gone, it will have softened. Washio will not cry in this time—he will be frustrated, but he is perhaps the most rational of them all, and maybe the strongest in the face of loss.

Konoha and Kaori will stay out in the wind a little longer. But it won’t be long before they come back inside too, and then—maybe—that will be their first step to putting this loss behind them.

 

 

The third years will do their goodbyes on another day. A better day. A sunnier day, when their tears have dried and their heads have cleared and their futures are bright in front of them again.

On that day, Bokuto will laugh and cheer and tell their juniors that “You can totally win every Nationals from here on out!”—

and Saru will smile, and let them know that he’s proud of all the hard work they’ve put in—

and Komi and Konoha will converse loudly and mock-exasperatedly about their problematic kouhai, and how troublesome they’ve been, and how you wouldn’t think it but they’ve come together so incredibly well as a team that (and then they will be serious) they’d never have gotten that far without their kouhai’s incredible support—

and Shirofuku will fist-bump everyone, and ruffle the little first-year libero’s hair, and her smile won’t leave her face the entire time—

and Washio will say very little, except that he’s glad to have spent the past year with this team. And he will say that it’s the best team he has ever played on.

They will pass on the captaincy to Akaashi, who will accept with a nod and a rare, genuine smile—and reassure Onaga that yes, they definitely want him to be vice-captain, and no, they aren’t pulling his leg. Kaori will whap the new captains on the back and with a grin so bright it could rival the sun, tells the third years to leave it all to them.

They will say goodbye for the last time.

The kouhai will bow low and yell their sincere thanks, and the third years will pretend like they aren’t crying (but on this day, the tears will be happy).

 

 

But today is not a sunny day.

Today, the Fukurodani Academy volleyball club has lost in the Spring High National semi-finals. And right now, Konoha cries, because it hurts. It hurts because he can see nothing beyond right now, crying into Kaori’s hair and feeling the worst ache in the world fill his empty soul.

This is the end.

Konoha cries. And he does not know if he can stop.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the by-product of a hashtag circulated in HQ Twitter on Thursday night: #hq1twtfic. This is one of the ones I did: _Their last defeat is National semifinals. Konoha cries. Because they lost—and because he will never play with this team again._ And then two days later I decided I wanted to write it out in full as maybe a 1000-word ficlet, and here we are, 3400 words later.
> 
> My name for the Fukurodani manager with a ponytail (not the one with a happy eating face) is Sakurada Kumiko (桜田 久美子), she’s in her third year too, and yes, she and Konoha are dating.
> 
> Edit: The Owl managers have official names now!!! So Sakurada Kumiko is now Suzumeda Kaori (and also a second year), and the other one (third year Happy Eating manager) is Shirofuku Yukie :D. Suzumeda and Konoha are still dating.
> 
> ETA, 16 January 2016: Have just been informed that third-place playoffs aren't a thing at real life Harukou, so not going on to a bronze medal match... is actually accurate. Huh.
> 
> And I'm on [Tumblr](http://museicaliteacup.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/museicalitea) if you want to check those out :D


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